


Heart in Mouth

by VampireFaun



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor learns to want, FOOD THEMES?? is that a tag, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Fixation, Post-good ending, mature for now but MIGHT be explicit later........we will see......
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-20 17:31:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15539394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampireFaun/pseuds/VampireFaun
Summary: The heart of an android, in its struggle to adapt to deviancy, clings to oral fixation in a desperate attempt for self-comfort. After all, to eat is the purest form of love—isn't it?(Or: Connor needs something in his mouth, and he needs it therenow.)





	1. Strawberries and High Fructose Corn Syrup

Connor needs something in his mouth, and he needs it there _now._

That’s as far as he can think; anything else winds into dead ends of data. He’s tried distracting himself with case files, downloading, calibrating, anything that’ll make the objective leave him alone—or no, rather, the _feeling_ (that’s the kind of language Markus has been telling them to use. Connor still isn’t very good at it.)

It’s been like this ever since he went deviant: the random objectives—no, _feelings_ (why didn’t this come as easily to him as the others?) Connor still isn’t used to the idea of wanting.

That much was clear to him since he saw Hank again, for the first time. They’d stood there in the dusty city snow for a while, at first, Connor still blinking surprised from the hug he’d been pulled into. The beat of the wind was cold on his back, whistling through the desolate city—Connor had walked long through the abandoned streets, led on by the objective looming blue and quiet up ahead. Like a moon-eyed animal following a carrot on a string.

**Objective: Find Hank.**

Now he’d been taken by the shoulder and pulled into an embrace; and when Hank pulled back and looked at him, there was a look of dry, humored wonder in his eyes.

“Shit,” Hank had said. “So you’re really…” He made a gesture with his hand. “Y’know.”

Connor blinked. “Conscious?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Connor paused before answering. “Yes,” he said finally. “That appears to be the case.”

Hank scoffed, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “I always knew, y’know.” He lifted his chin and regarded him. “You were always too goddamn annoying to not be doin’ it on purpose.”

Connor gave a small smile. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Aw, come on.”

They both stood for a little bit longer. Hank was watching him, the amusement fading to a steady consideration, and Connor could see himself reflected in those eyes. He wondered if Hank saw a human.

Hank clapped his hand awkwardly on Connor’s shoulder. “So what’re you gonna do now, huh? Go back to your new…android buddies? You got an, uh…android tent city, or somethin’?”

“I will be returning to CyberLife.”

After a beat of shocked silence, Hank gave him a look of disbelief. “You _what?_ Oh, hell no—”

“The company is under new management. You have nothing to worry about; I will be working with them—”

“ _Fu_ _ck_ no, Connor! Are you crazy? They almost killed you!”

“While I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant, deactivation is considered murder now. They couldn’t do it if they wanted to.”

Hank was dumbfounded for a few seconds. “And what’re you going back for, anyway? What do they want from you?”

“I’ll be of help with negotiations. I’m trusted by the revolution.”

An analysis of Hank’s body language revealed it to be uneasy. “Connor.” He sighed. “I don’ know how to say this, but—this shit. It won’t change overnight. This android thing. Plenty of folks still think you’re a machine, or somethin’, especially over there.”

“The revolution has proven—”

“They were tryina _kill_ you, what, a week ago? You think now they’ll see the light? Hell, they might even hate you more.”

“They might,” Connor said slowly. His LED flowed yellow for a moment, then flushed to blue. “But I’ll have my—android buddies.”

“Nah.” Hank was pacing now, not quickly, just turning on his heel and taking a step or two, and then a step or two back. “Nah, Connor, I don’t like this. I mean, shit, do you even wanna go back there?”

The spill of yellow light into the LED, circling, circling, circling. “I think I…would be useful to them.”

“That ain’t what I asked. Do you _wanna_ go back?”

“It is…one of my objectives.” Which is a feeling, Markus had said, not an objective—or were all objectives feelings?—or not all of them—

“One of your _objectives?”_

Now a hint of doubt was entering Hank’s expression, almost as though Connor had said something strange, something that betrayed him as truly a machine. Would Hank think he was a machine? An error message—no, _panic_ was the name—flared up in Connor’s processor. No, not processor: Heart. Heart. Heart. That was what Markus had told him with the most force, his arms clasped behind his back as he faced the window. _Humans have processors too, Connor. They call them minds, or hearts. No, not the anatomical heart. Heart._

_Markus, I’m not sure I—_

_Use the words. The rest will come later. Trust me._

“Connor? Hey!” Hank’s voice brought him back to the present. “You run outta battery or what?”

“Sorry, Lieutenant. I’m here.”

“Do you wanna go back to Cyberlife or not? Ain’t all this—revolution thing about, I don’t know, choosing things for yourself?”

Connor thought for a moment longer, his lashes lowering. “…I think…I don’t trust Cyberlife. I have no attachment to them. But they need me to return, and I don’t exactly have…anywhere else to go.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Connor.” Hank jabbed a finger back towards his car. “Then you’re comin’ home with me.”

“What?” Connor looked up, irked. “But Cyberlife—”

“They’ll find someone else.”

“They want me. They’re still powerful, it wouldn’t be wise not to return.”

Exasperated, Hank stared at him. “I thought you said you _didn’t_ want to go back!”

“I’m not sure—if I want—” Connor struggled, LED yellow. “I don’t think I should, or—” Red. “I just don’t know what I want, okay?!”

For a few moments, Hank looked at him, a glimmer of thought in his eye. Then, he took a step closer. “Alright, then, how about this. Do you wanna see Sumo?”

Connor recalled the memory of the Sumo, the innate trust he’d been given by the dog, the interesting fur. The chance to analyze another life-form—it was almost playful, trying to analyze an animal, when he was so used to dealing with humans. It would add to his data—no—the word was…it would be fun. So he spoke. “Yes.”

“Then you know at least one thing you want, and you’re comin’ with me. Cyberlife can go to hell. C’mon.”

So Connor had followed him to his car, and gotten in, and sat there still processing as the car drove down the empty roads. Hank turned the radio to some rock station, and the soft, static-touched sound of the radio filled the dead silence.

Connor glanced over at Hank. The comfort of trust. Yes—this had been the right decision.

After a while, Hank looked over. “Hey, Connor.” That same tone as before—the flat curiosity. “Why don’t you pick a station?”

Connor turned back. “Pick a station for what?”

“I don’t know.” Hank shrugged, hands on the steering wheel. “Pick a station you like on the radio.”

That he liked? Connor didn’t know what he liked. He could pick the station Hank thought was best, the station that was the most calming, the one that was most invigorating—but like was such a different thing. Still unsure of what he would do, he reached out and began to tab through the stations, pausing at each to listen. This one was classical. This one was pop. This one was country, and in that way, Connor kept flipping and flipping through the different stations, even as he could feel Hank’s eyes slide to him.

Connor didn’t manage to pick one all the next five minutes, at which point they arrived at the house. With a faint sense of failure, he leaned back. Why couldn’t he have just chosen one—any random station?

Hank turned off the car before turning to him; there was the clink of the keys in his hand. “…” He cleared his throat. “So you, uh, androids don’t like music much, or…”

“I—wasn’t sure which one to choose,” Connor said flatly. There were error messages coming up now, and they were making him tense, as far as androids can get tense. Overloaded.

With a nod, Hank had seemed to accept it, though Connor heard a lingering suspicion in his voice. “Alright.” Then he was standing up out of the car, closing the door.

He’d watched as Hank got ready for bed, and found a place on the couch to go into stasis. There had been an offer from Hank to use the “guest” room— _Cole’s room_ _,_ was the unsaid—but Connor had refused. The couch was fine. The couch was fine.

It was fine until he’d abruptly come out of stasis at 4:35am with a sudden cascade of error messages, and a restless energy that wouldn’t go away; and that was how it had ended up in _now_ _,_ now as in Connor has an inexplicable, almost visceral urge to put something in his mouth, anything that he can analyze, any comfortingly mundane stream of data that he can interpret and file away—anything where he doesn’t have to struggle with replacing his words with Markus’ new ones, something that’ll be _real_ and tangible that’ll keep his processor busy—no, not processor. Mind. Heart? What was the difference between mind and heart?—

No, no, no, that settled it, he needed to analyze something _now_.

So Connor rose slowly from the couch, so quietly that even the pulse of cricket-sounds outside wasn’t louder. He activated his night vision and slipped off his shoes—because he can’t wake Hank, he _can’t_. He remembered with stinging clarity Hank’s reaction to his analysis: _Aw, Connor, you’re so disgusting._ And he had felt disgusting, after that; not because of the action, but because of the reflection of himself that he could sense in Hank’s mind. Disgusting. Shame.

Down the hall he crept, dimming the glow of his LED, and the new objective flickered to life up ahead. The letters were shifting strangely, betraying the numbers behind them, but the text was still clear. **Objective:** **Analyze.**

He found the kitchen. There, Sumo lifted his head and met his eyes in the dark.

“Shhh,” Connor murmured. “Good boy.” But Sumo knew something was wrong, because he gave a small whine as he padded up to Connor. With a few sniffs at him, he rounded the android suspiciously; Connor absentmindedly blocked him with his hand, already looking around for something, anything. “I’m fine, Sumo. Go back to sleep.”

Sumo eyed him for a moment before giving a soft snuffle, a shake of his fur, and walking out of the kitchen with a jingle of his collar.

Now it’s time. Connor didn’t want to be—disgusting, not after the reaction he had gotten from Hank. He did want to be human. Humans put food in their mouths, and that wasn’t disgusting.

The fridge loomed before him; Connor crossed the floor, the light-shafts from the window passing across his face in the night, and opened the fridge. Yes, this is because—he was doing this to add to his data on food. Right? Or to make sure everything in the fridge was safe, or something. The new thoughts added to his objective, but they only succeed in scrambling it further. Okay—no more thought. Just analyze.

Connor took out a bottle of ketchup first, the chill of the fridge brushing over his fingers. He put a little bit on his fingers, lifted them to his lips, and tasted.

** >Tomato concentrate from red ripe tomatoes, distilled vinegar, high fructose corn syrup, corn syrup, salt, spice, onion powder— **

He almost sighed in relief at the blissful fizz of processing, the surge of familiar interfaces. Yes—this was what he needed. More, he needed more data—

**Total Fat 0 g**

**0%**

**Saturated fat 0 g**

**0%**

**Polyunsaturated fat 0 g**

**Monounsaturated fat 0 g**

**Cholesterol 0 mg**

**0%**

**error**

**Sodium 154 mg: 6%**

**Potassium 54 mg: 1%**

**Total Carbohydrate 4.5 g: 1%**

**Dietary fiber 0.1 g: 0%**

**Sugar 3.7 g**

**Protein 0.2 g: 0%**

That was it? There had to be more. More he could look up—

**The H. J. Heinz Company, or Heinz, is an American error food processing company with world headquarters in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Originally, the company was founded by Henry John Heinz in 1869 error February 14, 2013, Heinz agreed to be purchased by Berkshire Hathaway error acquire error 46,195,652 shares error error error of common—**

More more more quickly quickly—

**Heinz Reduced error Sugar error error Tom$@1ato Ke58tch80hup error 13 , $2.58 fr6ro09m 10 &nsbp;+ stores error 2ra14 pr9orA9duct r%eveview&%(@!(][[}0111011101101000011000010111010000100000011010010111001100100000011000010010000001101000011001010110000101110010011101000011111100001010 **

It wasn’t enough anymore. The relief had passed, and now everything was—worse. He kneeled down on the kitchen floor, setting the ketchup bottle on the ground beside him, and dug into the fridge until he reached a jar of jam. Restless energy filled him, and his hands were almost trembling as he unscrewed the cap and dipped a finger in, then tucked it securely into his mouth. The relief was instant, as soon as he closed his mouth around his finger, the sugary, viscous texture dissolving on his tongue. He closed his eyes and sucked for a few moments, his lashes dark on his cheeks. Data—

** >Strawberries, High fructose corn syrup, corn syrup, sugar, fruit pectin, citric acid— **

Connor didn’t store the data this time. Instead, he dipped his fingers back in and pressed them against his tongue.

** >Strawberries, High fruct7se corn s2rup, corn syrup, su0ar, fruirt pecatin, citric acid— **

Again—

** >Strawberries,0ig8fruc8tose0110100001100101011000010111001001110100 **

Desperate now, he set the jar back down, though with one hand he kept the lid of the jar and pressed the cool edge absentmindedly against his lips. His other hand reached back into the fridge, opening the freezer. Ice cream? That would work.

Soon, there are so many things on the floor around him, scattered in a circle around him. Bathed in the glow and hum of the fridge he kept going, lapping at his fingers, analyzing, in this strange sort of fit that’s the closest he gets to being a machine, and yet, somehow, the closest he has come to being a wild animal, too. The thought occurred to him.

It was at that exact moment that the lights in the kitchen flicked on.

Connor stopped, unblinking, an apple halfway to his open mouth, to the tongue already flattened down against his bottom lip—his eyes already dulled in preparation for the stream of data. He quickly closed his mouth and turned his head to the doorway, where Hank stood wide-eyed with shock.

“Connor?!” Hank said, with a bewildered stare that soon moved down to the bottles and containers all over the floor. “Aw, jeez—Connor, what the _fuck?!”_

Sumo padded out from behind his legs, looking slightly guilty. Oh.

Hank’s voice cut the awkward silence. “Connor, what the _hell_ are you doing?” His voice went high with disbelief. “Are you okay?”

“…I’m fine,” Connor said. He swallowed and set the apple back down. “I was analyzing the—”

“You were analyzing _what?_ ” Hank burst out. “The _fridge_?”

“I was testing the food.”

“At five in the goddamn morning?! Why?!” Hank came closer, the shock fading to confusion on his face. His expression was mystified as he moved a bottle of dressing aside with his foot. “What the hell—you’re _scaring_ me, Connor. Is somethin’ wrong?”

Now Connor could see the worry, and it made his stomach sink, if such a thing is possible for an android. “There isn’t anything wrong,” he insisted. A few error messages popped up, and suddenly he was frustrated, his LED dipping red. “I just needed something to do, okay?”

By now, it was clear that Hank had realized he was out of his depth. He pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. “I’m gonna call the—whatever. The android doctor or some shit. What the _fuck_ , Connor.”

Connor felt like he wanted to disappear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you—”

“You? You ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry about.” He walked off for his phone. “It’s probably those CyberLife fucks messing with your head. You just hang on.” He unhooked the phone from the wall. “We’re gonna fix you up, alright?”

Connor looked up at Hank, every nerve-wire singing with shame. He looked down.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, looking up Heinz ketchup ingredients on google: ough YES....this is WRITING......
> 
> ANYWAY here, have a fic I started just for fun! Might continue it, we will SEE.....lemme know what you think!
> 
> ALSO I DIDN'T EDIT THIS CHAPTER TOO CLOSELY SOOOO....SORRY IF THERES MISTAKES N STUFF, LEMME KNO. Especially since I decided to change everything from present to past tense at some point except for that first part and now I'm like dhlkfhsfhdkf I'm Sure I Missed Some Edits
> 
> OKAY,,,, BYE bye! <3 If you read this I Love You, hee hoo


	2. Hard Candy, 87% Dissolved

Connor sat quietly on the couch, his hands folded in his lap, and stared straight ahead as the repairman tapped away on a screen. There was a wire snaking from the LED on his temple, and another slipped through a button of his shirt, hooked to his pump regulator.

He had a hard candy in his mouth—a Jawbreaker, Hank had called it, as he’d tossed it to him, in the shiny crackle of its wrapper. “So you don’t—lick anything else in my house,” he’d said. So far, it hadn’t been a bad idea. It lasted and occupied him, unlike a little bit of ketchup or jam. Connor let it rest on his tongue.

**Jawbreaker Progress: 26% dissolved**

**Ingredients: Dextrose, Maltodextrin, and Less than 2% of Corn Syrup, Malic Acid, Calcium Stearate, Carnauba Wax, Artificial Flavor, Blue 2 Food coloring** (though it was turning to the next layer, Yellow 40 food coloring, and and the next artificial flavoring was isoamyl acetate. Banana.)

By the time the repairman had come, the day had lightened into a fair, cloudy winter morning, and the grayish light from the outside did little to light the home. From where he sat, Connor could see Hank in the kitchen, hunched over the table with tense shoulders. His hands were wound together in front of him, a magazine left unread on the table. Two weary eyes gazed out from beneath that heavy grey brow, not quite looking at the repair man, but not quite ignoring him, either.

Connor watched Hank from the corner of his eye for a while, until the jingle of a collar came around the couch. Looking down he saw Sumo, his two soft, beady eyes almost worried.

 **Jawbreaker Progress: 29% Dissolved**. Definitely on Yellow 40 now.

All of a sudden the repairman raised his head, and all eyes were suddenly on him. “Alright,” he said. “You can come over here, Lieutenant.”

Hank stood up and came over; Connor’s eyes followed him. “So what’s the deal?” Hank said.

“Well, based on what you told me, I pulled up a couple of graphs.” The repairman began to angle the smartscreen to show Hank, but Hank glanced up at Connor and waved his hand.

“Show him too. I don’t know what the fuck I’m lookin’ at.”

The repairman hesitated for a second but dutifully came over, sitting awkwardly on the low table in front of Connor. He tilted the screen up, as Hank came to stand next to them.

“This is the general stress-level graph,” the man said, pinching the screen so that the graph filled it. “It looks like early this morning, stress level reached abooout…87%.”

“Shit,” Hank said, crossing his arms. He looked down at Connor. “What the hell were so stressed about?”

Connor moved the jawbreaker to his cheek so he could talk. “I don’t know.”

Hank was looking at him funny, but now the man had switched to another graph, and tapped on it with his stylus. “Now, most androids are programmed to self destruct when they get to 100%, but the RX800 is programmed to avoid that at all costs. I mean— _you_ _’re_ programmed, sir.” He gave Connor an uneasy smile. “So there are built-in mechanisms to help with stress. And since you have an abnormally large amount of sensors in your mouth, well…” He pulled up a luminous body map on his screen, and pointed to a cluster of dots on the face. “That’s the place with the most processing power, so it activates. That’s what I think happened, anyway.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Connor said, furrowing his brow. “I’m _not_ stressed.”

“Who knows?” The repairman shrugged. “Maybe you are, and you don’t even know. Happens to me!” He peered up at Connor. “But, by the way, you’re deviant, right? I mean—I know you are, from seeing you on the news. Er. Anyway, that could be putting pressure on your systems.”

Connor looked down for a moment, then back up. “But this _isn_ _’t_ happening to any of the others.”

“Well, that’s because you’re not _like_ the others!” The man turned the screen back, scrolling through something with his fingers. “You’ve got waaay more safeguards against deviancy.”

Hank crossed his arms. “So what’s that mean? I don’t really get all this tech shit—but does that mean he can’t be deviant?”

Connor closed his eyes for a moment.

**Jawbreaker Progress: 37% Dissolved.**

**Ingredients: Dextrose, Maltodextrin, and Less than 2% of Corn Syrup, Malic Acid, Calcium Stearate, Carnauba Wax, Artificial Flavor, Red Lake 40—**

“He already is deviant,” the repairman said. “And his software will adapt eventually. It’ll just be a little harder for a while, that’s all.”

Hank frowned. “Hmph.”

“I still—don’t understand.” Connor looked down at one hand. “Can’t you just take the programming out?”

At that, the repairman looked startled. “Nooo,” he said, long and worried. “Nooo, no. Better to have you change it, little by little. Otherwise it’ll totally overload your processor.”

The image of Markus, standing at the window, looking back at him over his shoulder.

“My mind,” Connor said, with a quiet, burning force; steadfast, but still cautious, testing.

“What?”

“It’ll overload my mind,” he said again.

The repairman blinked. “Yeah. I mean, yeah, you can call it that.”

Connor could feel Hank’s curious eyes on him.

 

 

xxxxxxxxxx

 

 

Hank had just gotten back from work, and it was late, late enough that the sky was fading fast, and even the distant whine of sirens in the distance had died down.

Connor had wanted to come with him, but Hank had been wary, afraid that “those cyberlife fucks” would get wind of it. After Connor had told him about the last simulation in the zen garden, he’d been even more incredulous. “And you were about to walk right back to them?”

“With the revolution on my side, I thought I could convince them—”

“Fuck, Connor, I thought you were supposed to be smart.”

But it seemed that it would’ve made no difference; because just a few minutes after Hank got home, there had been a phone call to the house. Now Hank was pacing back and forth in the kitchen, while Connor sat on the couch in the adjacent room, watching the news.

“Fuck no,” Hank was saying into the phone, as he paced. Step, step, step. “I said fuck no. How the hell did you find this number, anyway?”

Connor watched the T.V. screen; it was showing footage of the android army, shot from a helicopter. _Negotiations are ongoing between Markus, leader of the android revolution, and Michigan governor—_

“He ain’t _your_ fuckin’ android!” Hank roared into the phone. “You hear me?

_The city remains on curfew, but residents are advised not to leave their homes until an agreement is reached. The proposed bill, the Android Rights Act, is intended to replace the American Androids Act—_

“You soulless sons of bitches. You _fucking—_ no—” Step, step, step. “No—”

Connor was working on his third jawbreaker, a sour one this time, **54% Dissolved.** He was on the layer with Blue Color 1, the most interesting one, but for some reason now he felt a spike of stress. His LED blinked yellow, and he shifted in the hoodie he was wearing—Hank had tossed it to him earlier (“You don’t have to walk around lookin’ like a fuckin’ mannequin all day”) and after a moment of thought, Connor reached down for one of the strings of the hoodie and put it against his mouth.

Hank’s voice was rising; the pace of his steps was increasing. “No, fuck you,” he barked. “No—no, _fuck_ you!”

Connor twirled the hoodie’s string, folded it into a loop and held it between his lips—first gently, but then pressing harder.

**Jawbreaker Progress: 49% Dissolved**

He folded over the string again and tucked it back between his lips—never touching with his tongue, but rather just feeling the springy resistance of it, the rough texture against the softness of his lips.

“Don’t call again,” Hank said poisonously, “Or I’ll fuckin’ kill you. Have a nice day.” With that, he slammed the phone back into the holder.

Connor parted his lips, letting the hoodie’s string fall. It held its shape, unfolding into a zig-zag against the dark black fabric. “It didn’t sound like you wanted them to have a nice day.”

“Ha-ha,” Hank said dryly. “Very funny.”

“You should have clarified,” Connor said, with the slightest of smiles. “In case they thought you were being polite.”

Hank groaned. “Did that repairman flip your funny switch or what?”

Connor looked at Hank, his brown eyes questioning. “And where would that be?”

“Oh, shut up,” Hank muttered, though there was mirth in his eyes. He looked off for a second. “Better not be that fuckin’ repair guy who tipped them off. I’ll wring his scrawny neck myself.”

“That wouldn’t be wise,” Connor said, looking back to the news. He absentmindedly took up the hoodie’s string again, putting the plastic end against his lower lip, then slowly folding it in.

All of a sudden, Hank was beside him, looking down at him from above. “And what the hell are you stressed about now?”

Connor let the string fall, and looked up. “What?”

“You’re fidgeting.”

“I think…” He paused. “I don’t know why.”

“You aren’t gonna make a mess outta my fridge again, are you?”

“It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

Connor looked over at the shiny bag of jawbreakers sagging half-empty on the couch. “How many of those are left.”

With a rough laugh, Hank reached down and mussed his hair. “You little shit.”

The touch surprised him, and didn’t displease him; in fact, he felt his stress level fall, and even found the wit to respond. “I’m 52% of the way through the current one.”

“Jesus, you can know that? What the fuck. You really are somethin’ else.” He sank onto an armchair near the table with a rumbling sigh from somewhere deep in his chest. “I’ll get more tomorrow, if the store’s open.”

“Thank you, Hank.”

There was silence for a little bit.

Connor’s eyes remained fixed on the news flashing across the screen, though he was aware of Hank in his peripheral. He leaned on the palm of his hand, and soon he’d put the edge of the hoodie’s sleeve against his mouth.

“You _are_ stressed,” Hank muttered. “I knew it. Is it the news?”

“No,” Connor said, but Hank had already picked up the remote.

“Come on, I’ll put on a movie or somethin’.” He flipped through a couple. “You ever watch Silence of the Lambs?”

“I can download—”

“Nah, just watch it. It’ll keep you busy.” He pressed play, and the movie started. “Good movie, even though it’s real old. Detective stuff. You’ll like it.”

The movie started; it was the opening sequence, with the violin track blooming and filling the room, the picture of the young recruit running through a forested track, her ponytail bobbing behind her. Connor hadn’t ever been in a wooded place like that, he thought to himself; he’d run simulations of it, but he’d never really left the city.

“Y’know, I’m glad you’re here, Connor,” Hank mumbled after a while, drowsy from the darkness outside. “Glad you’re not standin’ in some closet in Cyberlife or whatever. And I’m a lonely old fuck…”

Connor looked at him. “It was a good decision.””

“Those goddamn…” His voice was slurring, as he fell asleep. “You’re too good for them.” He leaned his head back, his eyes already closed. “N’ sometimes I think…you’re even too good for…”

He said nothing more. Sleep had claimed him.

Connor watched him for a few seconds, analyzing the gentle rise and fall of his chest, before turning his attention back to the movie; but his LED was sputtering yellow.

 

xxxxxxxxxx

 

 

The light of the T.V. bathed Connor in an eerie light, the old and flicker-striped wash of it leeching the color from his face. He was 85% of the way through a new jawbreaker, and laid on his side and slightly forward onto Sumo, who had found his way up to the couch.

The climax of the movie was approaching. Connor had his nose and mouth pressed against the back of Sumo’s head, the fur going silk-like where it was flattened, and ticklish where it fanned loose.

In the movie, Hannibal Lecter, the cunning cannibal psychiatrist, was speaking, sneering, to the young FBI cadet, from his jail cell; it was about the murderer on the loose.

Hannibal’s voice went on quietly. _“What is the first and principal thing he does? What needs does he serve, by killing?”_

The troubled frustration of the cadet, as she paced. _“Anger. Um. Social…acceptance, and, um, sexual frustration—”_

 _“No.”_ The loudness of the word made Sumo twich; then, the low voice resumed. _“He covets. That is his nature. And how do we begin to covet, Clarice?”_

Connor could feel the flow of his Thirium, the steady pulse of his regulator circulating it. He and the confused young cadet on the screen locked eyes for a moment, as the shot panned to her.

 _“Do we seek out things to covet?”_ Hannibal murmurs. _“Make an effort to answer, now…”_

Connor was transfixed, unblinking, even as a notification faded in: **Jawbreaker Progress: 87% Dissolved. Option to bite down: Yes/No/Do Nothing**

_“No—we just—”_

_“No. We begin by coveting what we see every day.”_

Connor’s gaze shifted slowly but surely, moving to Hank.

_Don't_ _you feel eyes moving over your body, Clarice?”_

Sumo looked up; Connor was rising up, looking at Hank, transfixed, as if realizing something. In the glow of the television Hank seemed to be a statue; some noble and weary ghost, the sturdy build of him, the wise rest of his brow in slumber. The curl of his beard along the side of his face.

Connor leaned forward, holding the jawbreaker between the perfect back molars of his mouth. A little tremble of a thrill went up his neck, into his jaw.

_“And don’t your eyes seek out the things you want?”_

Connor bit down hard.

At that precise moment, the T.V. suddenly burst into static. _Signal Disrupted,_ a female voice said, and Hank startled and opened his eyes.

Both Connor and Sumo were staring at him, two pairs of eyes looming, lit by the buzz of grainy screen-light in the dark—the familiar, beady curiosity of dog bobbing just beneath the fixed, dark and _piercing_ owl-stare of android eyes.

“Oh, fuck!” Hank gasped, bringing a hand to his chest. “Aw, Jesus. Connor, what the hell—?” He heaved a breath, and looked at the static on the T.V. “Old damn thing—” He looked back. “…how come you were staring at me?”

Connor leaned back, crushing the reminder of the jawbreaker in his teeth. “Sorry, Lieutenant. I was checking to see if you were awake.”

Confused, Hank wondered at him, and then shook his head. “Fuck.” He ran a hand through his hair, wavering. “You can be—pretty damn terrifying when you wanna be, you know that?”

Terrifying? Connor didn’t like that; so he gave a small smile. “I think the noise from the television was what frightened you.”

“Guess so.” Hank stood up, stretching languidly. “Uh…guess I’ll go to bed. Did the movie finish?”

“No.”

“You can start it up again if the signal comes on.” Hank paused, then. “…”

They met eyes.

“Connor,” He trailed off. “You were lookin’ at me, almost like…"

“Like what?”

“Nothin’.” With one last, puzzling look, he went off. “Night, Connor.”

“Good night.”

Connor gazed after him long after he’d disappeared into his room, closing the door behind him. He watched in the dark and thought.

He put two fingers against his lips.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters? in ONE day? it's more likely than you think!
> 
> MAN BUT SERIOUSLY thanks guys for all the encouragement!! I was like whOAH........dang, there's a lot of you! warms me cold hard ~~processor~~ heart to read all these lovely comments and I hope I can repay the joy with this new chapter. ough Connor I oh so love you. yea baybee...
> 
> OH YEAH and if you wanna watch that scene from the movie at the end, here it is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UhDZPYu8piQ one of my FAAAVORITE movie scenes. anyhow TOODLES


	3. 100% Silk, Woven

 It was night again, night with a soft drizzle of rain against the roof of the car, and Connor in the passenger side watching the drops streak back along the window. There was the sound of the turn signal (though not as often as there should have been,) the faint noise: _click-click, click-click, click-click, click-click—glunk_ , that awkward sound the handle made as it went back up, almost like a swallow.

Connor looked at Hank’s reflection in the mirror.

Since CyberLife clearly knew where he was, there had been no point in hiding, they’d decided. He’d come with Hank to work that day, just like he’d always done before. For now he’d been designated as an officer—and it felt good, to be back at work, doing a job, thinking about things that weren’t his deviancy. To feel like an adult human being for at least a while. He’d been so occupied that he hadn’t even needed to use a jawbreaker—not that he could’ve showed up and been taking seriously with his tongue dyed blue. It was always the Blue 1 layer that colored things the most; tryarylmethane dye. C37H34N2Na2O9S3. So he’d come to work without a jawbreaker, except for one in his pocket just in case, and everything had gone just fine.

Though there _had_ been an—incident _._

Hank gave a rumbling laugh, like a roll of thunder, as he flicked the windshield wipers on. “Here’s your coffee, sir,” he snickered. “Fuck, Connor, that was such a good one.”

Connor turned his head to him, matching his smile. “He asked me for coffee. I was only doing what I was told.”

“Yeah, yeah, real funny. I mean, shit, but it _was_ real funny. Did you see his face? All over his desk.”

“Reed did not specify _how_ he wanted the coffee.”

Hank guffawed. “You _little_ shit. And fuck, you got a throwin’ arm like a fuckin’—pro baseball ass—hell, half the office ducked. Funniest damn thing I’ve seen in _years._ ”

A warm glow seemed to unfurl in Connor’s chest; it was something that sank down, filling him, instead of sparking up his neck into his mouth, where restless energy would stir. No, this was something that was calming, not agitating, and Connor smiled again on his own.

“Priceless,” Hank muttered. “You’re priceless, Connor. Amazing. Shit.”

A thrum of energy went through his chest, up his throat and into his mouth.

Connor looked at Hank, a faint frustration ebbing into him.

The windshield wipers slid back and forth, the muffled, whining beat of them filling the silence. Back and forth, back and forth, the reflection of the rain-peppered windows sliding across Hank’s hands, across the seat, until the car slowed to catch a stoplight. Then, Hank glanced up. “Pick a station, will you?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to pick?”

“I wanna know what kinda music you like,” he said gruffly. “I’m curious.” He gestured with his chin. “C’mon, find somethin’. And actually choose this time.”

Connor reached out with his index finger, lightly tapping the radio on. Then, he began to tab through the stations. After a few seconds of each station, the information would pop up on his interface.

 **Electric Beat by Here4U**. Connor blinked, scanning through a news article that appeared. **Digital Harmony** **’s Latest Boy Band—**

Hank groaned. “Anything but that.”

Tab. **Testify by Rage Against the Machine.** What machine, Connor wondered?

Hank flinched at the noise. “Hey, that one ain’t bad, but can you turn down the—”

Tab. **Automatic by Here4U**

Tab. **Plastic Love by We Are Human**

Tab. **Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen**

“Connor, I swear, if you—”

Tab. **Cannibal by Ke$ha**

Connor paused for a moment, listening to that one. Then, he went on. Tab, tab, tab—what was he supposed to be looking for? It was entertaining to see all the information flash by, to see the different album covers loom past his sight, but what did it mean to find a song that he _liked_? How would he know? He pressed the button again.

Tab—

And then it happened.

All of a sudden, the music bloomed out of the speakers, and went straight like a fucking _knife_ into his chest. Connor was so shocked for a moment his arm froze; a tremble went through him. But the music rolled on, merciless; and then, slowly, staticky, the album cover flickered into sight in his interface.

“Wow,” Hank mused. “Damn, this is an old one. I remember this one from when I was I was a kid.”

**You Can Make History (Young Again) by Elton John**

Connor stilled, lowering his hand, as the lyrics began, rising up over the peaceful twang of the sitar. They washed over him.

 _“I can feel the time…closin’ in,”_ A beat, then— _“I can feel the years, crawlin’ through my skin…”_

With one slightly trembling hand, Connor reached down for his tie, folded the end of it, and put the new corner just barely between his lips. **Materials: 100% Silk, woven.**

 _And if I doubt myself, I can count on the rain,_ _”_ it sang, “ _To cover the tears of this aging game_ _…”_

Hank looked over, a gleam of uncertainty in his eye in the dark. “Connor, you alright?”

 _But I can count on you_ _…to play your part…_

Connor’s hand was shaking; he folded the corner of the tie over again, and bit down on it.

 _I don_ _’t miss a beat of your animal heart—_

“Okay, no more music,” Connor said suddenly, sounding incredibly out of breath for an android, and fumbled with the buttons. Off, off, turn it off, turn it off, staticky error message— **turn it _off_ — **

Blissful silence, the patter of the rain; Hank had reached out and clicked off the radio. But the relief didn’t last long, because soon he pulled over slowly, onto the side of the road.

Then, after a moment, he turned and gave Connor a look of concern. “Shit, Connor, you alright there?”

Connor nodded. “Yes. I think I—it was just an overload.”

“Right.”

The sound of rain on the roof of the car.

“How come _that_ stressed you out?”

“I think it was just the—idea of choosing a song.” Connor’s jaw gave an odd twitch, and his brow furrowed. “And then it was also, I…”

“You what?”

“Nothing,” he said, and then turned to Hank with a troubled flash in his eyes. “I said nothing. I’m fine, okay?”

Hank seemed surprised. “You sure?”

Now Connor felt bad about the outburst, almost instantly; he leaned back. “Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry to have worried you. I think it’s just what the repairman said.”

With a smile, Hank scoffed good-naturedley. “You aren’t gonna come home and rip the couch apart or somethin’, are you?”

“I’m _not_ a dog!”

That startled Hank. His heavy brow lifted. “I know, I know,” he said. “Sorry. Just makin’ fun.”

The _click-click, click-click_ of the hazard lights.

Then, he opened his mouth, thought for a moment, and shook his head. “Y’know, Connor, maybe three-fourths of the fuckin’ time, I have no damn clue what’s going on inside your head.”

“I know.” Connor put his forehead in his hand; his other hand was skimming along the wrapper in his pocket. “I’m sorry, Hank. I’m really sorry. I _don_ _’t_ know what—I didn’t _mean_ to make you worry. You’ve done so much for me. I’m just…”

Hank waved him off. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, shifting the car back into drive. “Don’t worry. I know it must be hard.”

Connor bit the inside of his lip. He wanted to—he wanted to—he didn’t know, he just didn’t know.

“We’ll be home soon,” Hank said. “You can, uh, sleep on it. Or stasis on it, or whatever you call it.”

 And so they started the rest of the way home.

The storm worsened as they drove, the tires sending out waterfalls every time there was a flooded dip in the road. Connor looked out at the sky and saw a crackle of lightning in the distance, crackling over the city skyline. There was something wrong. It was finding its way into words, but it was _hard_ , and he didn’t say a word—even as the car pulled into the driveway.

Hank shut the car off. “Alright, how about we—”

Connor opened the door, got out, and ran quickly to the house.

“Connor?” Hank called after him. “Hey—hey! Shit—” He went out into the downpour, shielding his eyes. “Connor! What the fuck—”

But Connor had already gone to the side of the house, the shiny black of his shoes sinking into the mud, and hoisted himself up onto the window. “I just need some time to—” He grunted, as he reached up and scaled the window like a ladder. “Think!”

“On the _roof?!_ Connor, are you fuckin’ _crazy?!_ Get back here!”

Connor scrambled onto the tiles and walked across the flat surface of the roof, before sitting down. He brought his legs up to his chest and looked out, into the rain.

“Connor?” Hank called out. “Shit shit shit—” There was the sound of the front door opening and closing.

Connor put his head between his knees.

For a few minutes he had silence, uneasy silence, with his LED dipping from yellow to red and back to yellow. The rain streamed down over the waterproof surface of his jacket, the jacket with the glowing blue triangle that told everyone what he was, changed the light in Reed's eyes from ease to hate.

Suddenly, there was the sound of hinges; a hatch-door opened on the roof, and Hank climbed out, cursing and fumbling for his umbrella.

Connor stood up. “Hank, it’s not safe!”

Hank managed to get the umbrella open. “It sure the _fuck_ isn’t. Sit down before you fall over.”

“I just needed time to think!”

Finally Hank clambered all of the way out, closing the hatch-door behind him. Then, he stood there, facing Connor, looking odd and disheveled under the wide brim of the umbrella. “I’m gonna stay on this fuckin’ roof until you tell me what’s wrong.”

With a desperate, vulnerable look, Connor tore his gaze away from Hank, over the city.

“It wasn’t even my _choice_ to be deviant!” he said, standing there in the storm. “I thought it was—but it _wasn_ _’t._ ” The frustration in his voice faded into disappointment; sadness. “It was part of CyberLife’s plan all along.”

Hank leaned back against the chimney.

“What I wanted _never_ mattered,” Connor said, softer.

“I’d say it mattered when you fought your way outta that garden.”

“But even _that_ wasn’t my choice!” Connor’s voice burst out, unsteady. His LED was a solid red. “Kamski wanted me to make that choice. Everything’s what he wanted—those androids in his pool—” Connor clenched his fists. “He programmed me like them. I’m made to be _used_.”

Hank was silent.

“And this programming, with my mouth, Kamski put it there on _purpose._ _”_

“The repairman said it was ‘cause you were stressed out—”

“I don’t _mean_ the new problem, Hank, I mean the evidence sensors in my _mouth._ ” Connor’s voice was beginning to crackle with static. “Why did he put those sensors there, when he could’ve put them in my hand, or anywhere else? You said it was disgusting, and he _knew_ that. He knew I would never eat, when he wrote my programs. Did he think—it would be funny?”

Connor looked up, rain streaming down his face. The steady red pulse of his LED; the flash of muffled light in the clouds.

His voice went small; broken, almost betrayed. “Was he... _mocking_ me?”

He stood there for a little bit in silence, holding his forearms to himself, staring out into the distance. Hank watched him from behind for a minute. Then, he peeled off the chimney and walked carefully forward.

“Listen, Connor,” he said. “Your choice is your choice. Doesn’t matter who wants it, or whose plan it is, or whatever. Hell, Fowler forced me to work with you, and the only reason I ain’t thankin’ him now is that I don’t wanna see his smug-ass face.”

Connor almost smiled at that. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Doesn’t matter who made you. I mean, fuck, you think humans evolved to live in Detroit, or drive, or lose their fuckin’ minds on red ice, or make music? Any of that shit?”

Connor was quiet.

“Nah. We evolved to mess around in the dirt.” He shrugged. “And maybe some of us suffer for it. My body sure as hell wasn’t built to drink like a damn fish, and I’ve learned that the hard way.”

Hank took another step closer.

“But we ain’t what we were made to be. You can call it God, or rA9, or just some fuckin’ toss of a coin, but we ain’t. Kamski mighta made you, but whatever you did after was you. You’re free now, as free as any human.”

With that, Connor sighed, and turned around. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just get down from the fuckin’ roof so we can go to bed.”

Yet, Connor didn’t do that, not immediately. Instead he walked closer, coming to stand just under the umbrella. He met Hank’s eyes.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, I said.” Hank sounded embarrassed. “Oh, and uh…sorry.”

“For what?”

“Callin’ you gross all those times.” He tilted his chin up, watching him. “Didn’t think.”

“…” Connor was silent, his LED suddenly flushing red again.

“What?” Hank said, annoyed.

“Hank,” Connor said quietly, looking up—and all of a sudden, there was a dark, gleaming look to his eye, something almost dangerous. “What if I told you I wanted to do something—really disgusting?”

Thunder rumbled behind him, as if on cue.

Startled at the question, Hank watched him, the confusion fading into weariness. “As long as you don’t do it on my roof,” he said. “Knock yourself out. Now c’mon, I got you Warheads. You’ll like ‘em.”

With that said, Hank closed the umbrella, mumbled a curse as the rain came back onto his head, and struggled back through the hatch. Connor watched him make his way down the ladder.

His fingers ran up along his tie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O WOW!!! IT'S ME AT IT AGAIN WITH A NEW CHAPTER!!!!!
> 
> BOIY yall dont even KNOW what ive got planned for this fic...Hee Hee Hoo.......im mad with power. leans back and rubs keyboard all over face while cackling................boy oh BOY it's gonna get funky. WOO
> 
> ANYWAY THANK U ALL SO MUCH FOR THE COMMENTS SO FAR!!! im havin the time of my LIFE and im SOOOO glad yall like it!!
> 
> edit: **HEY UHHH DID YOU GUYS KNOW HANK IS VOICED BY THE SAME GUY AS MR KRABS???? WHAT hthe fuk.....what do i do wih this informatjon**


	4. Hank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> CHAPTER NUMBER FOUR!!!! GIVE IT UP FOR CHAPTER NUMBER FOUR!!!!

The dark afternoon had faded into a darker night, though the rain had not let up. It pattered ceaselessly on the roof of the house, quiet, consoling; and just like the night before, Hank was fast asleep in the recliner, and Connor was lying with Sumo on the couch, his gaze fixed on the T.V.

He’d stripped off the damp jacket and the pants (dusty from the roof,) and they were in the wash; and Connor was curious to the feeling of wearing only the hoodie from the night before, the shirt beneath it, boxers, and the garter-belt suspenders tight on his thigh that held his shirt down crisply in place. And the long black socks that he used, held by a pair of garters on their own.

Hank had given him a funny look when he’d seen those. “Fuck, you’d think your clothes are gonna run off or something.” A pause. “They really wanted you to look plastic, huh?”

So now Connor was on the couch, his legs folded in and spilled to the side, sunk down in the warm sea of the hoodie and Sumo’s fur. His lips were pressed against the back of his arm as he leaned forward; his gaze was so intense on the television that he didn’t move. In Connor’s deep, unblinking eyes the black and white of the old movie was reflected, his audio processors turned all the way up to catch the faint words from the two lovers on the screen.

It was a man and a woman, their head and shoulders filling the frame, her arms wrapped tight around his neck.

 _“It’s nice out here,_ ” the woman murmured, in the muffled, sensual sound of old movies, the muffle of static. _“Let’s not go out for dinner.”_ She smiled. _“Let’s stay here.”_

The man gazed down at her lips. _“We have to eat,”_ he said.

She pressed in a kiss, barely a touch, and Connor felt the thrum of his thirium pump regulator pick up. He leaned forward just slightly.

 _“We can eat here,”_ the woman whispered, swinging slightly in her hold of his shoulders. _“I’ll cook.”_

A sly smile. _“I thought you didn’t like to cook.”_

 _“No, I don’t like to cook.”_ And she leaned in for another kiss, a deeper one, with both their heads tilted and the slight, hungry movement of her jaw.

Connor felt a surge of something like annoyance, something that made him shift his legs on the couch. “They should order a delivery,” he said quietly to Sumo, without moving his gaze from the screen. Sumo raised his head, looking up to him, but Connor petted his head until he settled back down.

Hank shifted in his sleep on the armchair. Connor glanced at him before looking back to the screen.

The couple was kissing more, now, as they walked through the apartment, and Connor touched his lips just slightly against the back of his hand, watching like a hawk. The man was on the phone now, the woman just beside, still kissing him even as he talked—

And then, suddenly, there was one specific kiss, nothing particularly special to it—but it was a little noisier, or something else about it made Connor _snap_ , and he twisted his legs on the couch and pressed his mouth harder against his hand. His thirium regulator sped up, until it was a thick pumping that he could feel through his body.

Sumo gave a soft whine, aware of something wrong, and looked up; but Connor shushed him, running a finger under the strap of his garter. It had suddenly become uncomfortable. “Let’s watch something else,” he said with some strain, flipping to the next channel with his interface.

It was a documentary about animals. _“And here we see the wild jaguar, slinking towards its prey…”_

Connor still felt uncomfortable. The faster circulation of thirium gave him a swimming sort of feeling, a restless thrumming. With a sigh, he checked his main interface.

**Stress Level: 55%**

Shit—that was high for him. Leaning over Sumo, he reached into the bag by his side (Warheads. Hank had been right—they were good.)

Yet, all of a sudden, he stopped, his hand frozen. Something was different. He almost—it was almost as if he didn’t want to be distracted from the feeling this time. Or did he? Or didn’t he?

**Stress Level: 62%**

Shifting on the couch, he drew his hand back out and looked back to the television. He’d try to tough it out this time, he decided; he didn’t want to rely on something external. But the documentary wasn’t interesting, and so he flipped to the next channel with his interface. A cooking channel.

They were spreading frosting on a row of cupcakes—chocolate, by the looks of it. Two women, talking. _“So you just spread this,”_ a voice said. _“All the way…oh, doesn’t that look good, Martha?”_

 _“I could eat this just on its own!”_ The shot panned up, and Martha came into view. She held up the spoon and licked it, before laughing. _“Delicious.”_

_“Mmmm…”_

_“It’s so rich, too. That cocoa is just like butter.”_

Connor’s pump was _pounding_ now, for some reason. As his systems picked up, his artificial breathing sped; he sank his face down into Sumo’s fur. **Stress Level: 72%**

“I don’t understand,” Connor said. “I don’t understand why this is happening.”

In response, Sumo licked at his hand, beady eyes watching with concern.

_“You just heat it up, melt it, get that creamy texture—”_

Connor clicked to the next channel, which, blissfully, was just a boring talk show about a book. He lowered the volume.

**Stress Level: 76%**

No, he couldn’t ignore this now. It definitely wasn’t because of the T.V. anymore. With a slight sigh he sat up, leaning against the back of the couch, and closed his eyes. Calm. Calm. What was this? It was a hunger of sorts, but an android couldn’t get hungry, or so he thought. It was something stranger.

**Stress Level: 80%**

**Error: High Stress. Error: Pump regulator overclocked. Warning: Systems running near full power. Error—**

Okay—okay—he needed something in his mouth. He’d been through this before; so he reached into the bag, unwrapping a hard candy with shaking hands. Why had he let it come this far? But it was fine now—he would be fine now. He took the candy and pushed it into his mouth, closing his eyes as he felt the flavor seep in.

**Ingredients: Corn Syrup, S1gar, Micr48ncap59lated 1alic 4cid—**

No no no, it wasn’t working—

A hot pulse went up through his body and he _gasped_ , spitting the candy back into its wrapper. The sweet, fruity taste lingered on his tongue, but his legs were trembling. “Hank,” he gasped, a tremble going through his body; he rubbed his thighs together, the garters now seeming wholly too tight. No response. “Hank—!”

Sumo spilled down onto the floor, padding around and making breathy, whining sounds of worry. He went to Hank’s legs and circled them.

“Hank—” Connor grimaced and slowly slipped his legs off the couch, standing unsteady but somehow still graceful, in that smooth inhuman way that androids have about them. He went to where Hank leaned, asleep; and he bowed over the recliner like a willow, his hands sliding down onto the armrests. His shadow from the light of the T.V. fell across Hank, who began to stir.

“Hank,” Connor breathed, and suddenly, Hank was wide awake.

“Connor?” His face screwed up and then he opened one eye, then two. “What—Connor, what—?”

But Connor was already sinking down, down, sinking into Hank’s lap and against his broad chest, kneeling, his thighs pressing flush around Hank’s waist, until the whole weight of him was resting against him. “Hank—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Connor?!” Hank actually flinched, at the feeling one-hundred-some pounds of heavy, breathless android encircling him. He fumbled and began to straighten up. “What the hell—?”

“I think I’m experiencing—sexual arousal.”

“You’re _what?!_ _”_

At the that jump Hank gave, Connor quivered violently, squeezing his waist tighter between his thighs. A crackle of annoyance sparked through him. “Do you _need_ me to _explain_ sexual arousal to you?!”

“Shhh—” Hank soothed him, though his eyes were startled. Now he was wide awake, and he stared up in weary wonder and confusion. “Shit—I _knew_ this was what you were gettin’ at. I shoulda—”

Connor reached up for his face with both hands, his slender fingers curling around his jaw—no, it was a _vice_ -grip, and he pushed up with his knees, sliding up against Hank’s still body, until he was looking down at him. “Just—don’t move—” he gasped.

“Connor—?”

Connor opened his mouth wide, the little point of his tongue peeking out, the inside glistening with thirium-based fluid—his lashes lowered, his eyes narrowing cat-like, as he crushed Hank slowly against the recliner and made for his lips—

“Jesus—take it easy!” Hank said, and fumbled for his shoulders. “Easy, easy. Connor, isn’t—aren’t you—”

Connor stopped, closing his mouth and swallowing. “What?”

“Fuck—” Hank’s face was flushed; he was breathing hard. “I thought that’s what you were gettin’ at, with all those funny looks—but what the hell, aren’t you an android?”

“Androids are capable of feeling arousal,” Connor said automatically, though not without strain. “Not only Traci models—” His back arched and he gave the closest and android could give to a _wheeze_ , clinging to Hank’s shirt as though he was going to fall apart.

“Shhh. Easy—easy, Connor—” Still perplexed, Hank reached up for his back, running one broad hand gently up and down. Connor _crowed,_ but still settled a little, his head sinking down over Hank’s shoulder.

“Listen, Connor,” Hank said steadily. “I know you’re real desperate right now. But shit, you’re a fuckin’—piece of art. You’re a fuckin’ angel. You don’t wanna come outta this haze and realize you got naked with some ugly old middle-aged—”

“Middle _aged_?” Connor said, his hands clenching Hank’s shoulders. He met Hank’s eyes again—and he was _pissed._ “Middle aged?!”

“What—?!”

 _“I_ ,” Connor said fiercely, his dark eyes burning with energy, “Have _thousands_ of files stored in my system, millions of pieces of data, more records than you could ever count, let alone _read_ , in one-hundred lifetimes—and that’s just what I have _indexed._ I have perfect copies of the data and memories from _thousands_ of androids, including Traci models, over 6,000 separate indexed in-depth _scans_ of human bodies for reference—I know everything, and I don’t _want_ it. I want _this._ ”

Hank’s lips had parted. Hank.exe has crashed. “Uh—”

Connor seemed to tremble, then, and clenched his teeth. “I. am. _Hundreds_ of years older than you. And you’re _patronizing_ me. So—” His hands clenched both of Hank’s wrists, and he leaned over him. “So just—hold still—” His eyes were ravenous. “And let me—!”

But Hank wrenched his wrists free easily, and stared him down. “Then I’m sure—” He seized Connor’s bare legs, one in each hand, and lifted him—spilled him onto the couch. “That your-hundred-year-old- _highness_ won’t even bat a big, doe-eyed fuckin’ android eye—” He set himself on Connor’s hips and leaned over him. “If I do this.”

And then Hank took his face and kissed him, long and _just_ like he wanted—his mouth open—and Connor closed his eyes and shivered as his mouth sensors _exploded_ , the flood of biomedical data registered in his system. Hank. Hank was _kissing_ him. Hank—it felt like his whole body was crawling with the numbers, the new information, winding its way into every corner of his—heart.

When Hank ended the kiss, Connor could only lie still, trying to get his quivering legs around Hank’s waist. “Hank, you don’t have to—mmmnh—!” But he was silenced by another kiss, and his words turned to a whine like that of the windshield-wipers, slippery in the very back of his throat.

Everything was Hank. Connor’s mind was full of data, his body surrounded, pressed in place, engulfed. The smothering feeling consumed him; he couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. All he could do was soften beneath the overpowering knead of Hank’s strength, let himself be rubbed and stroked and kissed, Connor’s thirium regulator pounding in vain as he disappeared into the tight, swallowing grip of powerful arms. He was being loved, but at the same time he was being squeezed into nothing. Connor was being eaten alive.

Then, all of a sudden, Connor’s mouth was free, and Hank’s mouth had found his neck. Connor was— _dissolving_ into the hoodie, even his voice coming undone, distorting with fuzziness like a voice over a phone. “Hank—” The relentless pace of kisses, loud and smacking down his neck, made him writhe. He was feeling so strongly in places where he didn’t even _know_ he had sensors, he felt like he was about to burst—

“Fuck,” Hank said, stopping to look down at him, his expression still hazy-shocked. “You really did fuckin’ want—fuck.” At a loss, he shook his head. “Unbelievable. Shit.”

Connor’s most sensitive touch sensors, apart from his mouth, were in his groin; and though he didn’t have the necessary biocomponent installed for, well, this, the weight of Hank shifting his hips on his made him tilt his head back weakly.

“Still don’t get why me, though,” Hank muttered to himself. “Shit. Connor, you could have anyone.”

“You never—gave up on me,” Connor managed, through a shudder. “No one else. No one—error two zero six f—five—”

His voice crackled; he’d said that out loud, and Hank looked a little concerned. “Never mind, don’t talk. Makes me fuckin’—are you okay?!”

“S-sorry. Systems at e-eighty eight percent capacity—”

“Shit. Easy then, easy.” Hank reached down, rubbing the inside of one of Connor’s thighs until he’d steadied; but then, he slipped a finger under a garter, pulled it out, and let it snap back with a scoff, eliciting a high gasp from its wearer. “Hundred years of experience, huh? Real cute.”

“No!” Connor began to scramble up. “I can do something. I have seventy-five different programs for pleasure, I can—”

“ _Hell_ no. You think I’m gonna use you like some sorta fuckin’—Eden club sexbot?!”

“But—”

“But nothing.” Hank sounded curious. “I wanna know what _you_ want.”

Connor swallowed. “Kiss—”

“Yeah, sure, but ain’t there, I don’t know—” The curiosity became embarrassment. “I don’t read manuals. You don’t have a—”

“There is—a panel,” Connor said weakly. “Where the biocomponent could…attach.”

“A _panel?_ ”

Connor laid still, too overclocked to really move, as Hank moved the hoodie up, then undid the clasps on the garters to lift the shirt. One more shift of fabric, then—

“Damn. There really is a panel. What the fuck, you’re like an alien. How do I get this open?”

With the last strength of his processing, Connor activated the necessary program; the panel unlatched and slid aside. “There…if you find the right place, it might…”

“What the fuck,” Hank muttered, but he pressed his whole palm against the collection of plastic connectors and plastic chips, all wrapped in soft rubber—and Connor _keened_ , his toes curling, his back arched.

“Easy—”

“Quick,” Connor seethed, “Or I’ll overheat—”

He pushed again, and again, and Connor was _losing_ it, his LED going so red that it lit the room. His face was torn—pained, shivering ecstasy—the sickly sweet twinge of a hand against the bare connector. “Hank—!”

There was the sound a spark, though it wasn’t clear where from; and Hank paused, taking his hand off in concern. “What the fuck was th—”

But in a wild reach, Connor was coming up, throwing his arms around Hank’s shoulders and practically _diving_ into a kiss; and when Hank kissed back, squeezing the back of his neck, Connor shivered—

**Stress Level: 0%**

And everything went white.

Nothingness.

Heart. Heart. Heart. Markus turning to him from the window.

 _What about hunger?_ Connor had asked.

 _Hunger?_ Markus had replied.

_Yes._

A funny look. _You feel hunger?_

 _Yes. When I_ _…_ He looked down at his forearm. _When I have an objective to analyze someone. To interface._

 _Oh._ A curious glance. _That_ _’s want. Or curiosity._

 _No. When_ _…it’s more. When it hurts._

_You mean love?_

Connor came out of the white haze to a gentle movement, the sound of a voice. He was held in a pair of arms—spread out close-legged across a pair of knees.

“Eaaasy. Shit. Easy, Connor. Easy.” 

He opened his eyes just a crack; it felt like all his systems had reset—like he’d just gotten into a new body.

“Thank you,” he managed to whisper. Then—

“Main processor has crashed. Automatic stasis for calibration in ten seconds.”

Hank gave a start. “What?!”

“Have to recalibrate,” Connor said sleepily. “Nine seconds…”

“Recalibrate?!”

“Mhmm. Eight seco—”

“What?! Do I call the—the repairman?! What the fuck—”

Connor groaned. “No, don’t.”

“Connor—”

“This is a normal processing task. Seven seconds—”

“Hey!”

Connor _yawned_. “Good night.”

“Connor, I’m fuckin’ _worried—_ ”

“Should only last twelve hours maximum. Shutdown five seconds.”

“No, fuck, hang on Connor _wait_ , what the fuck do I do with—”

“Four…” Connor whispered. He felt so comfortable, settled in Hank’s arms, and nuzzled against his shirt. “Three…”

“Aw, shit—”

“Two.”

“Good night, you little shit, I’m callin’ the—”

“One.”

Connor smiled as he went limp, into the arms of a blissful rest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **YES, YOU HORRID LITTLE GREMLINS!!! YES MR KRABS IS FEELING IT NOW!!! U CAN STOP COMMENTING IT!!!**
> 
>  
> 
> JUST KIDDING ur comments fuel me and i am thorsty for them, especially ones with memes. slorpslorpslorp. and let me know if there are typos because i read this over like....onCE
> 
> DAMM this was a thorsty chapter......shouLD THIS BE RATED E??? i dont know............i mean it _was_ like oooo ya touch my usb port but like....... **does that count?**
> 
> O YEA! and the movie kiss featured was from this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zu8JASfWb6A H,AHA I DIDN'T EVEN KNO THIS MOVIE, I JUST GOOGLED...."classic movie kiss" and went yeah, connor, ur watching this now i guess!!!!! let's spin the wheel of random media connor watches that makes him feel funny(tm)
> 
> im still DEBATING on how precisely to go on with this fic, so next chapter might take lil longer!! we shall See..........in the meantime you can find me at my fanfic blog at vampirefaunfic.tumblr.com OOOR my main blog at vampirefaun.tumblr.com!!
> 
> MAN i havent written smutty smut in a real minute, but i was SO inspired by one of my very FAVORITE hankcon fics!!, Tourist in A Dream by Octobig https://archiveofourown.org/works/15026837/chapters/34835294  
> it is OH so good. and after tryina write smut again. i have a new appreciation for how good the explicit parts in this were. NOT ONLY THE SMUT PARTS WERE GOOD, BUT SINCE IM ON THE SUBJECT OF THIRST IM JUST...YEAH...
> 
> AS ALWAYS let me know what you think aaaaand I'll try to respond to all the comments i can! because i love them! dabs into the distance


	5. Joy

 

**Manual External Reboot: Initiated**

**Power Saver Mode: Activated**

**Audio Sensors: Activated**

Connor’s audio sensors flickered back on to the sound of a conversation.

“Oh, woooow.” The repairman gave a stunned whistle, and there was the tap of his fingers on a screen. “How on _earth_ did you crash an RK800?”

“Crash?” Hank’s voice, now, tight with worry. “The fuck does that mean? Don’t tell me he’s—”

“No, no, crash is like…shutdown from system overload.”

“ _What?_ ”

“It’s like, if someone…faints. Whatever you did, you knocked out one of CyberLife’s most powerful processors.” A pause, and then a curious highness to his voice. “What… _did_ you do?”

Hank’s voice was gruff, defensive. “I didn’t do shit. _He_ got himself all—riled up.”

“Oh?” Innocent curiosity. “Riled up how?”

A dangerous pause before Hank’s response. “Did I fuckin’ pay you to ask me questions?”

“Er—oh, sorry, sir! I was just curious.” The tapping of fingers on a screen resumed. “It crashed itself? Huh. Must’ve really been something.”

Hank scoffed. “Really wasn’t.” Another pause—then, a poisonous tone. “…it?”

“Hmm?”

“You called him _it._ ”

A deadly silence, followed by the small voice of the repairman. “Ah, my bad. Sorry. Habit.”

 

**Main Processor Diagnostic Check: 75% Complete**

**Visual Sensors: Activated**

Connor blinked, letting his eyes focus as the room fuzzed into view. He was lying on the couch, fully dressed, with his head propped up on a pillow.

“Connor!” Hank came into view, his heavy brow knitted with worry. “You awake?”

Turning his head, Connor looked to Hank. “Yes.” He paused, his eyes flickering as he processed last night’s memories—and then he met Hank’s eyes, the gaze firm, meaningful. “…good morning, Hank.”

A look of unease came across Hank’s face; he glanced at the repairman, then back at Connor. _Not now!_

Relenting, Connor folded his hands over his chest and turned his gaze softly back up towards the ceiling. The air was heavy.

The repairman glanced between them and cleared his throat. “Right. So, uh…Connor, is it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll just do some basic checks.” He tapped at his screen. “ID?”

Connor opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again. He looked at the repairman.

The repairman hesitated. “Uh—I mean, could you state your ID for me, please, Connor?”

Quietly, but with an undercurrent of frustration. “313-248-517-51.”

“Can you move your head?”

Connor shifted it from side to side, the back of his hair disheveling against the pillow beneath his head.

“Eyes?”

He moved them from side to side.

“Can you give me your initialization text?”

“Hello. I am a prototype RX800—” His mouth snapped shut.

“…” The repairman looked up from his screen. “…go on.”

“No.”

“Pardon?”

Connor turned his head to him, and his eyes flashed: half-troubled, half-annoyed. “No. I—I don’t want to.”

The repairman stared, completely mystified, and for a moment Connor felt embarrassed. Why had he said that? Why? What had it been—there had almost been something _wrong_ about the words, something uncomfortable, like a bitter taste, a bitterness like that of an alpha acid in beer. It was the bitter taste that came in exchange for the sweetness of oblivion. The words would have been comfortable, familiar—but they just hadn’t _tasted_ right.

Hank was watching too, somewhere between amusement and worry. The latter eventually faded, and he folded his arms with a rough laugh. “You ain’t gettin’ anything outta him, kid.”

The repairman blinked. “Well…that’s okay. I mean, I guess you can…self-test. Er.” He flicked through something on his screen, looking flustered. “Sorry. Not used to dealing with—deviants, and all.”

“That much is apparent,” Connor said; the annoyance was clear now, even in his expression. “You may find it _helpful_ to regard—”

“We all done here?” Hank interrupted, coming forward.

“Yep, all done.” The repairman sounded relieved, and he stood, but then hesitated. “Oh—right. But crashing tends to scramble some data, so it might be helpful to run a cleanup program.” He dug in his briefcase and pulled out what looked like a small hard drive, with a long set of wires coiled around a plastic holder. “Has to be done externally, just so you won’t crash yourself again. Just plug the thick wire it into your main processing port—” He tapped his temple, mirroring where Connor’s LED was placed—“And the thin wire into your pump regulator. Let it cycle through the data. Oh—” He paused. “But one more thing.”

Connor was filling with dread; he knew what was coming, and tried to interrupt. “I don’t think I really need—”

“What is it?” Hank said, suspicious.

“Can’t have skin activated while you do it. Interferes with the data transfer.”

“That’s it?” With a shrug, Hank looked to Connor, though not too directly—not yet. “Eh, that’s fine.”

How desperately Connor wanted to say something! But instead, he opened his mouth, closed it, and then those dark eyes found the corner of the room. “Yes. That’s no problem.”

“Alrighty then,” the repairman said nervously, as he closed up his case. “Guess that’s all. You’ll get the bill within five to ten business days. Just give us a call if you—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Now Hank was impatient; Connor could tell from the shiftiness of his eyes, the way he made for the door to lead him out. “Thanks. Have a nice day.”

 

xxxxxxxxx

 

Connor slowly sat up on the couch, looking down at his hand.

 

**Main Processor Diagnostic Check: 75% Complete**

Absentmindedly he opened and closed it, turning it over, and mulled over the events of the night before. They made him feel—strange, to remember. Yes, he remembered how this very hand had held the side of Hank’s face—how the hand had been lost when Hank had kissed him ( _Hank had kissed him)_ crushed somewhere between the couch-cushions and Hank’s arm and Connor’s own body. Hands. Hands were important; they were human, they held, they reached for desires, they _wanted,_ but they were still useful for an android. Why hadn’t Kamski put his evidence analyzer in his hands?

The thought was occupying him still when he heard the click of the front door, and Hank came back into the living room. “Alright, repairman’s gone.”

Connor looked up and opened his mouth to speak, and—

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Hank held up one hand, silencing him, and his haggard face pinched with a look of discomfort. “Hell no. I ain’t even touchin’ this subject until I’ve had a cup of coffee.”

“I can make it for you,” Connor faltered. What was this feeling of shame?

Hank waved him off. “Nah, I’ll do it, I’ll do it.”

“No, _I_ _’ll_ do it.” Connor insisted, standing up; his voice went high with urgency. “I want to do something for _you_.”

Frustration. “Connor, for fuck’s sake, it’s a cuppa coffee! Sit down—”

“Last night, I didn’t get the chance to do _anything_ for you—”

“Augh, no no no—” He held out his hand again and spoke through his teeth, looking away; he couldn’t meet Connor’s eyes. “Not until I’ve had the _coffee_ , I said! Jesus. Fuck.”

He boiled with embarrassed frustration for a few moments, before looking back at Connor; and Connor’s eyes were suddenly despondent, hollow with unease.

Finally Hank let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose, and grumbled. “Fine. Make it if you want. Two sugars.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

 

 xxxxxxxxxx

 

So the coffee was made, the morning set in, the breakfast table occupied. Hank sat silently for some time at the table, the cup of coffee in his hands, and Connor waited on the couch, restlessly flipping through music in his internal audio. A jawbreaker was in progress, **30% Dissolved** but quickly dwindling, and his LED flowed restlessly: yellow-yellow-yellow- **red** -yellow-yellow- **red** -yellow- **red-red** , blink blink blink blink—

“Alright.” Hank said finally, and waved him over. “Alright. C’mere, will you? You’re like a fuckin’—disco ball with that thing on your head.”

Connor stood, feeling his thirium pump speed up; he walked swiftly to the table and sat, opposite Hank, and straightened his tie.

Hank stared down at his coffee. “What’re you so anxious about?”

“I’m sorry,” Connor said slowly. Holding the jawbreaker uncertainly between his left molars, he glanced down. “I didn’t want to cause you any more discomfort.”

“Me?” Hank looked up, baffled. “You think I’m mad at you?”

“You don’t seem…” Connor hesitated. “Pleased.”

“Of course I ain’t pleased, but you think it’s ‘cause of what _you_ did?” He leaned back. “Shit, Connor. Maybe that crash really did scramble you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m mad at _me_ , Connor.” The coffee cup was set down with a _clunk_. “Shouldn’t have done that to you.”

Connor’s heart sank. He looked up, imploring. “But—”

“No, no, I get it. You were in one a’ your—y’know—” He waved a hand. “Episodes, weren’t you? Where you needed to analyze somethin’, or whatever. But, fuck, Connor, you woke me up and I thought—” A huff. “I got mixed up.”

Is this what heartbreak is? His processors _hurt._ Listlessly Connor stared at Hank. “Mixed…up?”

“Yeah, I thought—damn.” Visibly uncomfortable, now, Hank rubbed the back of his neck and glanced away. “…stupid-ass human stuff. I wasn’t thinkin’ straight. And then you fuckin’ _crashed,_ or whatever, and all I could think was—you’ve already got enough shit to worry about, it’s been so _fuckin_ ’ hard for you these days. What the hell am I doing, making this about me?”

The words took a while to process. Connor scanned through them, lightning-speed, picking them to pieces, and when he’d made sense of them it was like someone had ripped his pump regulator straight out of him.

  1. _Hank felt something for me._
  2. _But now, Hank thinks I was only kissing him to let off energy. He thinks I was just using him._
  3. _Hank doesn_ _’t think I can love him._
  4. _Hank doesn_ _’t think I can love._
  5. _Hank thinks I_ _’m a machine_
  6. _Hank thi1nks I_ _’m a machine_
  7. _Hank th7n1 I_ _’m 6 0ach—_



“Connor—hey!” Hank had caught sight of the solid-red LED, the strange, scanning flickers of his eyes. “Connor, you with me? Shit—”

“I’m here, I’m fine,” Connor said quickly, though with a touch of staticky tremble in his voice. “I’m fine. But you’ve made a serious error—”

“Yeah, no shit!” He scoffed. “Don’t know what I was thinking. Turned you into a big ol’ android paperweight, that’s for sure—”

“No!” Connor stood up, then, the agitation plain in his face. “That—that isn’t what I mean!”

Hank looked up at him, surprised.

“I—” Connor looked down at Hank’s hands, unsteady around his mug, and then at his own, the palms turned up. “I—I _know_ what I felt!”

Carefully, Hank regarded him. “And what was that?”

Connor remembered the whisper of the man in the movie from the night before. _We need to eat._ That wasn’t quite right—an android didn’t need to eat, but somehow, he was still hungry. He starved. He _coveted._ He loved—

How could he describe all of that to Hank? He couldn’t just flat-out _say_ it. That would worry him, that would be too much.

“I _meant_ it,” Connor said finally, with force. “I _wanted_ to kiss you, and I would do it again.”

The air was tense. Hank’s gaze was so careful. “…Connor, the repairman said you were at 97% stress when you did all that. You sure it ain’t still—I mean—you weren’t actin’ like yourself.”

“I _was._ ”

That wary look again. “What’s your stress level now?”

Now Connor was devastated. “Hank, It doesn’t matter—”

“What is it?”

Connor’s jaw tightened, and he looked away. “Seventy-three.”

“Holy shit!” Hank stood up. “Nah, we ain’t discussing this until you run that—cleanup program thing. I don’t want you to pass out again.”

“It doesn’t _matter_ what my stress level is. I’m telling you the _truth_. I want—I want—”

Suddenly, the phone rang, piercing the air.

Connor was left there, those difficult words shivering on the brink of being said, as Hank answered his phone and paced into the other room.

“Hello? Yeah. Uh-huh.”

Connor looked down at one hand and clenched it.

Why were certain things harder to say than others?

“Right.” Hank paced back into the room, already shrugging on a jacket. “I’ll be there in fifteen.” Click—he hung up.

“What is it?” said Connor.

“We got a tip about that one anti-android group we were worried about. Let’s go.”

Connor nodded. “I’ll get the—”

“Wait, wait.” Hank held up a hand. “I ain’t gonna leave it like this, even if the whole city’s on fuckin’ fire.”

Connor nodded again. “…right.”

“How ‘bout this?” Hank stuck his hands in his pockets. “We’ll have a _real_ long talk when we get back— _after_ you’ve used that cleanup program, once you ain’t so riled up. Whatever’s on your mind, you can tell me. I’ll let you talk as long as you need, and you’re gonna tell me straight-out what’s wrong, no more vague stuff. You know I’m shit at reading your thoughts. And—” He reddened a little. “I wanna fuckin’—help you. So we’ll talk. In the meantime, don’t worry about anything. We’re partners no matter what. Got it?”

“…got it.”

 

 

xxxxxxxx

 

It was a long, long day, weary, tiring, the type of day that passed in a series of grim scenes: a silent road. Caution tape. The moth-like flutter of police lights against dilapidated walls. The creak of a sagging porch.

The light-headed, drowning feeling of finding a dead body, the wave of shock that rose white and stinging and _sick_ right between the ears—different than the chest-level drop of dread that accompanied any other finding. The buzz of denial followed by pity. The unreality of it.

It was an android, gleaming sickly-white and still in the faint light from a window. Her thirium regulator was gone. Her head was lolled forward. There was something in her mouth.

“The hell is that?” Hank said, shining his flashlight on her face. Connor crouched down; it was already mostly crushed, but he still recognized it.

“It’s an egg,” Connor said.

“Represents life,” Hank muttered. “These fuckers. Alright.” He glanced at Connor. “Do what you gotta do.”

So Connor reached down with two fingers, to the pool of blue blood that had gathered just beneath her; but this wasn’t the usual swipe and analysis. When he trailed his fingers through it, he felt a strange flare inside of him; and when he opened his mouth and licked, it was almost with vengeance.

He paused to analyze, waiting as the information flickered to life in front of him.

 

**Blue Blood**

**Model AX300**

**Error**

**Stop**

**Stop**

Connor’s LED went red.

 

**Stop stop stop stop**

 

Connor suddenly heaved—and _retched,_ doubling over. There was a sudden feeling, what a horrible feeling—an android couldn’t feel nausea, but all of a sudden it was as though he wanted to vomit up everything, blood sample and wires and his own thirium and all, everything, it needed to be **out** —he’d put her blood in his _mouth_ , the mouth, the most precious and sensitive place for kissing and sugar—the mouth was safety—it wasn’t for this, Kamski _couldn_ _’t_ have built it for this, for tasting death—death—death—!

“ _Connor!_ ” Hank rushed over as Connor gagged violently, falling onto his knees. “Connor—”

 

xxxxxxx

 

“I’m useless if I can’t analyze samples.”

“Connor, for fuck’s sake, stop sayin’ that.”

“It’s true.” Connor was trembling, whispering, as Hank helped him over the doorstep of the house. “I’m useless if I can’t—”

“Forget the fuckin’—samples—hup!— _fuck_ , you’re heavy.” Hank closed the door behind him, lugging him to the couch. “Where’d you put that—thingy from the repairman?”

“…”

“Connor.”

“It’s in the kitchen, next to the microwave,” Connor said hollowly. Then, he put his head in his hands.

Hank’s steps faded into the kitchen, leaving him alone. Connor gazed blankly down at his knees.

Then, the steps were back. “Alright. Don’t worry, Connor. Don’t worry. Hey, it’s alright.” The sound of Hank kneeling down in front of him. “Connor, look at me.”

Connor shook his head.

“Connor, I fuckin’ fainted the first time I saw a dead body on the job.”

“This wasn’t my first time.”

“Connor, we’re gonna run this program, and you’re gonna be _fine_. You hear that? You’re gonna feel better, you’ll go—shit, what the hell was I worryin’ about?”

“I’m sorry, Hank.”

“Ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for. Now, how the fuck—” He messed with the wires. “Oh yeah, you gotta deactivate your skin.”

“No.”

“That’s what the repairman—”

“No! I don’t—” Connor ran a hand through his hair and looked up, harrowed, at Hank. “I don’t want to.”

Hank stared at him, dumbfounded. “Why the hell not? You’ll feel better.”

“Hank—”

“What?!”

“Not—in front of you,” Connor said, haltingly. His gaze dropped. “Let me do it by myself. I’m sorry. Not in front of you.”

 

 

xxxxxxx

 

The soft whirr of the disc in the little machine carried on softly, under the sound of the T.V.

Hank had agreed, seeming confused and a little hurt. He would go to bed early, he said; and so now, there was nobody in the recliner next to the couch. An emptiness yawned in the room, the taste of loneliness thick in Connor’s throat.

His skin was deactivated, the device plugged into his temple and his pump regulator, and he was wearing another one of Hank’s hoodies. But it didn’t go well—not with the pearly metal of his skinless form, the garish crevices where the plates connected. The _hideous_ little bar code over his brow. Even Sumo was uneasy over it—Connor had had him up on the couch, but when the skin melted away the dog had shrunk back, unsure, and circled uneasily on the floor before padding away.

Connor was really beginning to like movies. He could lose himself in them—it wasn’t the same as just downloading it and processing it at 100X speed. It was like being somewhere else, being someone else.

The movie this time was an animated one, very old. He’d hesitated to watch it, at first, from the description on the download, but somehow he felt like he needed to see it. He had to.

It was Pinocchio, and the fairy had just come into the darkened room, her dress shimmering glamorous and blue. She delicately approached the puppet, as the violin music played underneath, longing and beautiful. When she spoke her voice was full of sweetness.

 _“Little puppet made of pine…”_ She tapped Pinocchio on the head. _“Wake; the gift of life is thine.”_

Connor watched fixedly, the blue reflecting in his eyes—and the music swelled, as the little puppet blinked, and rubbed his eyes, and began to move around.

 _“I can move!”_ He clapped his hands over his mouth. _“I can talk! I can—walk!”_

The music pitched, as the fairy laughed spoke. _“Yes, Pinocchio. I have given you life.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because tonight, Geppetto wished for a real boy.”_

_“Am I a real boy?”_

_“No, Pinocchio. To make Geppetto’s wish come true…”_ She smiled. _“Will be entirely up to you.”_

_“To me?”_

_“Prove yourself brave, truthful, and unselfish, and someday you will be a real boy.”_

Connor began to cry silently.

_“A real boy!” Pinocchio said, excited._

_“You must learn to choose between right and wrong.”_

Connor’s shoulders trembled. He’d never wept before. He’d never, and now there was fluid coursing down the pale, plastic cheeks, past his lips, rolling off his jaw. Somewhere, deep down, he must have known that it was a holy moment; but the misery of it was overwhelming.

_“Right…and wrong?” Pinocchio said, confused. “But how will I know?_

_“Your consciousness will tell you.”_

Connor’s LED suddenly went yellow, then; and he wirelessly lowered the volume, until it was barely audible. There was silence.

Then—

“I know you’re there,” Connor said quietly.

“Damn,” Hank said, as he stepped out from behind the couch. “That’s some ears you got.”

Connor was silent, glancing back towards him, his face bathed in tears.

Hank slowly went over to the couch, and sat just beside him. Sumo came along by his legs; and Connor reached down, and petted him with one shiny plastic hand.

For a few moments, Hank just sat there, taking in the sight of his android form.

“You don’t want to be a deviant android,” he murmured then, in the quiet, uncharacteristic voice he used when he was realizing something.

Connor said nothing.

“You wanna be a human.”

Connor gazed off, towards the silent but still-moving picture on the T.V. “Why don’t you think I’m human?”

Now it was Hank’s turn to be silent; he said nothing.

“Why don’t you think I can love you?” Connor said. “Do you think I’m not human enough to love? Do you think—” He put a hand to his chest, and trailed off,

Leaning back into the cushions, Hank watched him. “That’s what you were worried about?”

Connor nodded.

“Connor, it isn’t that I don’t think you can feel that kinda stuff.” Hank sighed. “It ain’t you that’s the problem. I…” He paused. “I just don’t…it’s hard for me to think that anyone would feel that kinda way about me.”

Connor blinked.

“I just didn’t think it was possible. That’s why I thought you weren’t—y’know. Serious. Fuck, that sounds bad, but I don’t mean it that way, I just…”

Oh.

_Oh._

“Hank—” Connor turned to him, in disbelief. “I—”

“I know, I know what you’re gonna say. Hank, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. Eh. I—”

Connor pitched forward and embraced him, in the kind of crushing embrace that only an android could give, sinking down against the soft but unyielding chest, the human warmth.

At first, Hank looked down at him, his eyes surprised; but then Connor leaned back, out of it—grabbed the little machine he was plugged into, and pulled out the two wires, _plink-plink_ as they disconnected—and let his human skin melt back over the plastic, as he fell back forward into another hug.

Hank chuckled, a rumbling that went through his chest, as he stroked Connor’s back, peaceful, the hand eventually making its way up to his hair. “You didn’t have to do that, y’know,” he mumbled. “You looked fine like you were. Don’t know what you were so worried about.”

“I like this better,” Connor said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re so damn beautiful either way,” Hank murmured. “Fuck.”

Connor closed his eyes against his chest, listening to the beating of his heart, with one hand closed tight on the crook of his elbow.

He remained that way for a minute. Then—

“You forgot to take your blood pressure medication.”

With a laugh Hank pushed him off. “Oh, _fuck_ off, will you? You little shit—”

Now Connor laughed, though his voice was still warped from crying. “It’s very important, you know.”

“I don’t need a blood pressure cuff with fuckin’ _attitude._ Thank fuck I’m not diabetic or you’d probably be biting me like some vampire or some—shit—”

“That  _is_ one of my functions.”

Hank scowled. “What, blood sugar testing?”

“No,” Connor said, matter-of-factly, as he tilted his head. “Biting.”

In shock, Hank stared at him—and then Connor ran his tongue over his teeth, a glimmer of actual _mischief_ in his eye, and Hank gaped. “What the fuck?!”

Connor smiled.

“You little—” Embarrassed laughter overcame him won, and Hank shoved Connor away, messing up his hair. “Don’t say shit like that! Fuck! What is this, a bad porno?! Where’d the hell’d you pick that up?!”

The smile turned to a grin, as Connor reached up with his hoodie sleeve and wiped fluid from his cheeks. “I was only informing you—”

“Informing me, my ass! I’ll fuckin’ throttle you if you say shit like that.”

“I have functions related to that as well.”

“Connor,” Hank said, shaking his head, “I am going to _bed._ ” He stood up. “Quit it. Finish the program. Good _night._ ”

And Connor watched him go, a playful smile on his lips, and the taste of joy so potent that he could feel it down into his heart. 

“Good night, Hank,” he said after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LEANS HEAD BACK AND YELLS!!!!!!! ANOTHER CHAPTER BAYBEY!!!!!!
> 
> OUUGGH this is a long one! ALSO that video was frommm https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_jkg6xcetV0 WOOOOO!! 
> 
> MAN AND THAT LAST PART, ITS LIKE.... 
> 
> Hank: connor ur so dirty!!! >//3//< WTF!!  
> Connor, who has probably all of urban dictionary, most of pornhub, and a solid chunk of deviantart all downloaded and indexed in his head:  
>   
>  **......haha no im just kidding hank...**
> 
> ANYHOO THANK U ALL SO MUCH FOR THE COMMENTS THUS FAR, THEY WARM MY KOKORO, I LOVE U DEAR BELOVED READERS <3 AS ALWAYS i will try to answer as many of u as i can!!!!! WHEEEE BYE
> 
> ALSO UNRELATED but i got like??? the worst haircut today, im dying??? ok THATS ALL BYE
> 
>  
> 
> **EDIT: HOLY COW IM LOOKIN THRU IT NOW AND DISNEY'S PINOCCHIO HAS SOME REAL NIGHTMARE FUEL SCENES??? THIS IS ACTUALLY A REALLY MESSED UP MOVIE, THANK FUK U TURNED IT OFF WHEN U DID CONNOR  
> **  
> 


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